


Gratitude

by tastewithouttalent



Series: Partners [3]
Category: Eyeshield 21
Genre: Established Relationship, First Time, Hand Jobs, M/M, No Plot/Plotless, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-26
Updated: 2015-03-26
Packaged: 2018-03-17 10:45:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,137
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3526352
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tastewithouttalent/pseuds/tastewithouttalent
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Takami didn’t intend for this afternoon to turn out the way it did." Takami and Sakuraba take advantage of a rare day off together.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Gratitude

Takami didn’t intend for this afternoon to turn out the way it did.

Seduction wasn’t part of his plan. He didn’t actually have much of a plan at all, besides taking the rare opportunity of a recovery day to spend a few hours with Sakuraba outside of the training that dominates both their lives. Takami is appreciative of that shared interest -- it’s far more satisfying to practice when he can see the improvement, can feel his teamwork with Sakuraba falling into smooth effortlessness with every swing of his arm and every received pass. But they are both busy all the time, practicing every moment they can and too exhausted after for more than pausing for the quick form of a kiss outside Takami’s house, and the possibility of even a half hour alone together is thrilling, much less an entire afternoon. So Takami was distracted by anticipation from thinking out the details, too busy smiling when he opened the door to offer any kind of a suggestion for what they could do.

Sakuraba was the one who had started the first kiss, leaning in over the careful gap between them once they were sitting on the couch, but it was Takami who had smiled against the warm of Sakuraba’s mouth and leaned in closer, Sakuraba who capitulated to the force and toppled backwards onto the cushions, and just like that Takami was on top of him, pressing the other boy down against the resistance of the couch with the weight of his shoulders while he gasped air just shy of contact with the other’s mouth. Sakuraba’s hand tangled into his hair, ruffled the strands loose of their usual tidy lines, and there was the sound of breathless satisfaction on the blond’s tongue before he arched up to meet Takami’s mouth, and that was the last thing Takami recognized coherently for some time.

By the time he pulls back enough to catch his breath he feels like it could have been a few minutes or days, is half-surprised there is still sunlight streaming through the windows to light up the soft distraction all across Sakuraba’s face. He looks younger than he has since before Takami cut his hair, his eyes flickering pleased and unfocused like he’s melting under the heat of Takami’s body, until Takami is at least as distracted by the look in the other’s eyes as he is by Sakuraba’s hand pushing up under the loose of his t-shirt. He’s shaking before he realizes it, motion trembling through him too strong to steady out, and their legs are tangled together into the outline of something more even though neither of them have taken off any more of their clothes than the shoes they shed at the door.

Takami takes a breath, shocked to realize how fast it pulls in his throat and how desperate the catch of heat makes him sound. “Sakuraba.” The name forms into a question on his tongue, pulls the blond’s attention up into at least the appearance of clarity. “Do you want to move?”

“The bedroom?” Sakuraba asks, and it’s some faint comfort that he sounds as wrecked as Takami feels, sounds like he’s gone hoarse in anticipation of the near future. The idea makes Takami shudder, persuades him to slide sideways off the couch and off the temptation of Sakuraba under him as he says “Yeah,” his actions speaking far louder for him than he could ever persuade his words to.

Sakuraba grins, so bright as to leave no trace of question regarding his willingness. “Good,” and he turns the other direction, sits up to climb over the back of the couch while Takami gets to unsteady feet and comes around the other end. Sakuraba has to wait until he takes the lead anyway so he can follow Takami down the hall to the right door, his smile lingering until Takami feels like he’s bringing the sun in his wake as he moves to open the door to the curtain-darkened bedroom. He’s glad for his habitual neatness right now, the routine that ensures the sheets on the bed are drawn straight and his laundry is in the basket where it belongs, but Sakuraba doesn’t even pause to take stock of the room; he’s leaning in against Takami’s shoulder, breathing warm against the back of the other’s neck and tipping forward until his weight presses at the other’s shoulders.

“Come in,” Takami says as he attempts and fails to fight back a laugh. The invitation is completely pointless, rendered moot by how closely Sakuraba is sticking to him. They make it three steps into the room before Sakuraba chokes on a laugh of impatience and pulls sideways, moving towards the bed and drawing Takami behind him by dint of closing his fingers around the other boy’s wrist. His hand is hot, warmer than Takami’s as it usually is, and his smile is coming easy too, curving uncontrolled over his lips even when he ducks his head in a flicker of shyness. Takami grins himself, his heart pounding with too much frenetic anticipation to offer the least hope of restraining his expression. When he leans in Sakuraba doesn’t let his hold go, the pull on Takami’s hand knocking him off-balance and keeping him from catching himself, and when he collides with Sakuraba’s shoulders they both fall back to the bed. The soft of the mattress cushions any possible hurt from the fall, makes Takami cough a laugh, and then they’re back to their tangle from before, this time with the added intention brought with the surroundings. In the dimmer light Sakuraba looks softer, the details of his features blurred slightly even before he tugs Takami’s glasses off to drop them on the table by the bed. Up close Takami can still see clearly, all the individual parts that make up Sakuraba pristine in close-up but faintly blurred in whole, like the heat in his veins has hit his vision and rendered it gentle and hazy.

“Can you still see me?” Sakuraba asks, his voice as soft as his features and twice as warm in the lower light. Takami smiles, reaches out to press his palms against the soft-shorn ends of Sakuraba’s hair to draw the other in closer towards him.

“Of course I can.” He doesn’t need sight for kissing, anyway, can shut his eyes and let the friction of Sakuraba’s hair against his palms run up into the warmth washing out over his lips until it’s all the same, a sense of satisfaction so deep it’s nearly an ache in his chest. Sakuraba rocks his hips up an inch, his knee falling into place between Takami’s, and they’re pressed together, heat and resistance clear to the touch through the double barrier of their jeans. Takami can feel Sakuraba’s breath catch when he shifts his leg higher, is breathing harder himself with his weight pressing him down against the other’s hip; it’s hard to think, hard to move, and he knows this will be better if he can get a hand free but he can’t convince himself to let his hold on Sakuraba go for even the moment it would take to press in against his jeans.

Luckily Sakuraba has better control over his hands, or at least more mobility. He’s sliding his palm up against Takami’s back again, fingertips flexing to press into the line of the other’s shoulder, and Takami is shuddering under the pleasure of the pressure and doesn’t notice Sakuraba’s other hand coming down until there are fingers at the front of his jeans and pulling at the button.

Takami leans back, far enough from Sakuraba’s mouth that he can attempt to think straight, but when he says “ _Oh_ ” it sounds like the encouragement he intends it to be rather than the rejection it might become. The angle is bad, Sakuraba’s wrist is twisting awkward between them, and Takami turns sideways without thinking, tilting his weight to roll off Sakuraba and onto the mattress instead to grant the other better access. Sakuraba follows, sliding the hand at Takami’s shoulder away so he can prop himself up on his elbow, and then he’s back to what he was doing, tugging Takami’s jeans open with the mouth dropping open with his focus on what he’s doing.

Takami doesn’t interrupt him. There’s a part of him that wants to offer reciprocation, wants to reach out to pull at the zipper of Sakuraba’s jeans and see how the other’s eyelashes look fluttering into unthinking pleasure. But Sakuraba looks like he’s entirely focused in on what he’s doing, like the effort is costing him, and Takami is flushed enough that he is willing to be selfish in this, willing to roll over onto his back completely and accept whatever it is Sakuraba intends to do. The blond huffs, a faint sound in the back of his throat, and then he’s moving with more deliberation, his movements smoothing out a little with the loss of the first desperate edge of the action. Takami’s jeans fall open, Sakuraba’s fingers pull at the fabric, and then there are hot fingers dragged against Takami’s skin, far sooner than he was expecting. The surprise runs through him like electricity, arches his hips off the bed, and for an all-too-brief moment Sakuraba’s fingertips are pressed in against the hot resistance of his cock. It’s only a breath; then Takami makes himself relax back to the sheets, but Sakuraba laughs, the sound short and startled, and then the touch is back, more deliberate as Sakuraba gets Takami’s clothes out of the way so he can close his fingers around the other boy’s length.

Takami doesn’t look down. He doesn’t need the visual of Sakuraba’s fingers tightening around him to reap the benefits of the satisfaction rushing up his spine, any awkwardness of the unfamiliar grip more than made up by the novelty of the touch. He’s watching Sakuraba’s face instead, the blur of the other’s features wholly insufficient to overwrite the appreciation going dark and hot in his eyes or the unconscious soft curve of his lower lip. If Takami were prone to self-consciousness that stare would set him burning with awkwardness; luckily he’s not, or at least not enough that his flush feels like anything but heat in his blood.

Still. “Sakuraba,” and the other’s head comes up immediately, his eyes going wide with shock as he comes back to himself. “Look at my  _face_.” Takami is grinning around the statement, the amusement only coming more easily for the pleasure uncoiling under the half-formed slide of Sakuraba’s fingers, and it gets him a laugh of response, quick apology before the blond ducks in to kiss him with that soft-shocked mouth. Sakuraba doesn’t pull away before he starts moving, stroking up over Takami with a rhythm nearly awkward for its speed but undeniably effective at setting the other alight. He’s arching back up again, thrusting against Sakuraba’s hand before he can think, and Sakuraba is breathing hard against his lips, shifting his weight until he’s lying half-atop the other boy and pinning him down to limit his motion. Takami can feel the unthinking strength under Sakuraba’s movements, the casual grace to speak to hours and days and weeks of endless practice, and when he gasps, “You’re so beautiful,” he means it more completely than the words will allow him to say.

Sakuraba’s eyes go wider even than they were before as he pulls back to stare at Takami’s face like he’s never seen it before; then he smiles, the brightness of the sun coming up behind a mountain, and ducks in to press his mouth to the corner of Takami’s forehead. There’s no words but Takami doesn’t need to hear them; appreciation is written into the careful-shifting grip of Sakuraba’s hand, the speed in his rhythm like he’s determined to give the other as much pleasure as he can.

He doesn’t have to try so hard. Takami would tell him if he could find the words and the will to match, would point out that he hardly needs persuasion to be sliding closer to the edge with every stroke of Sakuraba’s fingers. But the too-quick pace is making him burn, now, jolting sparks of anticipation up the whole length of his spine, and what he does instead is reach out for Sakuraba’s hip, clinging to the line of it like it can hold him in place against the heat that is coming for him. Sakuraba is breathing harder, rocking against Takami’s pinned-down hip like he’s losing his focus on what he’s doing, but his rhythm is perfect, steady and fast and even until satisfaction hits Takami all at once, bursts out over him and knocks him shuddering and limp against the mattress. He gasps for air between the waves of heat, letting them ripple out through him rather than offering any resistance, and Sakuraba keeps stroking, drawing aftershocks through him until Takami has to reach out and catch his hand into stillness so he can collect his breath.

“God,” he says up at the ceiling, sighing out a breath before he turns his head to kiss against the corner of Sakuraba’s mouth. “Thank you.”

Sakuraba laughs, though it goes broken and weak with heat in his throat. “I’m pretty sure I should be thanking you, you know.”

Takami lets Sakuraba’s wrist go, reaches for the other’s hip instead. “Not yet you shouldn’t,” he says, and pushes to knock Sakuraba over onto his back. The blond falls without resistance, only offering a noise of surprise that turns into a groan of appreciation when Takami gets his leg around so he can straddle the other boy’s legs. Sakuraba is still staring at his face, his expression going soft with anticipation now as the secondhand heat from Takami’s pleasure fades to make room for his own, and Takami flashes him a grin as he sits up over his knees, reaches down to unfasten the front of the blond’s jeans.

“Hand me my glasses,” he says as the zipper slides open under his fingers. “I can’t see you clearly enough.” That makes Sakuraba choke on his inhale, flushes him dark enough with self-conscious red that Takami can see it even with his near-sighted haze and the dim lighting, but he reaches out after a moment to collect himself, fumbling at the surface of the nightstand until he can lay claim to the frames. Takami pulls the jeans open, tugs the fabric open like unwrapping a present, and only then does he reach out to take the glasses from Sakuraba’s offering fingers.

It’s worth it for the delay in getting them on. With the clarity of the lenses in front of his eyes he can see the shadowed-over color of Sakuraba’s eyes, can see the almost-fear of adrenaline trembling against his lips. It runs through Takami like the last wave of electricity, thrilling delight as strong as the aftereffects still tingling through his body, and if he looks down it’s only for a moment, only to pull Sakuraba’s boxers aside so he can line his fingers up against the other boy’s length. There’s appeal there, too, an impulse to watch the pale of his fingers slipping up over the other boy’s dark-flushed cock, but it’s not enough to win out over the way Sakuraba’s head goes back and the way his throat goes tense on his whimper of response. So Takami looks up instead, falls into a slow rhythm easy enough to maintain without requiring the distraction of much focus, and lets his attention collect in what he can see of the other’s face.

Sakuraba’s head stays back, pleasure and desire twisting together until he looks almost like he’s in pain, fighting for an even breath and arching off the bed like he can overcome the weight of Takami on his legs by sheer effort. It doesn’t work, of course; Sakuraba’s stronger now than he was, but there’s no way he can thrust Takami out of rhythm or shift the other’s balance just by the motion of his hips. It’s still thrilling, to see him falling into desperation just under the stroke of Takami’s fingers, to see how rushed and gasping his breathing goes with only a few minutes of steady-slow motion. There’s a hand at Takami’s hip, fingers pressing in against the bare skin just above the waistband of his jeans, and Sakuraba’s other arm is thrown over his face, casting his eyes into shadow but doing nothing at all to disguise the open-mouthed pant of breath at his lips.

“Sakuraba,” Takami says, letting the syllables purr warm across his tongue, and Sakuraba flinches, jolts like his name is running straight through him as raw heat. Takami can feel him twitch harder against the other’s hold, can hear the desperation of  _almost_  under Sakuraba’s breath, and inspiration strikes him all at once. He leans in closer, tipping his weight forward so he can brace a hand against the bed, just over Sakuraba’s shoulder, and when he says “Haruto” it’s with complete confidence in the reaction he’ll get.

He’s not wrong, either. Sakuraba chokes on his breath, arches up as hard as he can against Takami’s fingers, and Takami strokes down, a quick burst of friction that pulls a moan from Sakuraba’s throat and sends him trembling into orgasm. He spills sticky over Takami’s fingers, out across his stomach, and he might be making a mess of his shirt but Takami’s too caught in the shape of pleasure turning the other’s mouth soft and gasping to worry about their clothes right now.

It  _is_  a mess, once they have both caught their breath and Sakuraba has emerged from under the cover of his arm to gaze unfocus at the ceiling. Takami takes stock of them both while Sakuraba smiles dreamily up at the blank above him; his jeans are undone, his skin sticky and damp with sweat, but he’s in a better state than Sakuraba, who has in fact managed to ruin his shirt and his boxers and even the edge of his jeans, somehow.

Sakuraba doesn’t seem to care at all. Even when Takami moves sideways, shifting to the edge of the bed so he can go in search of the box of tissues, he doesn’t move, is still smiling and motionless when the other comes back in. It makes Takami smile, too, stills the efficient motion of his hands so he can give in instead to the impulse to duck close, to press his mouth to the steady rhythm of Sakuraba’s breathing. Sakuraba shuts his eyes to the kiss, keeps smiling against Takami’s mouth, and Takami lets his attention go slack and easy for another few minutes.

He’s been waiting for this for longer than he knew. He can afford to savor it, now.


End file.
